While you were silent
As the last note decayed in the air
Lingering against birdsong
And you bowed your head slightly
In reverence
At the correct angle
Your hand upon your hand
Like a school child
Reciting the rote-learned verse of prayer
As you thought upon
Brave men with moustaches
Or the weather
Or dinners yet to be cooked
Your poppy straight
And just large enough
How many died?
Tom Druker 